


Atlas, hold

by wolfhuntsmoon



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Attempt at Humor, Domestic Fluff, Epic Friendship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friendship, Gen, Humor, I Blame Tumblr, I Tried, M/M, Oral Sex, Swearing, Wordcount: Over 10.000, do you even lift bro, just so much fluff, precious cinnamon roll steve rogers, steve rogers is hench man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 01:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17194115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfhuntsmoon/pseuds/wolfhuntsmoon
Summary: Erskine gave Steve the serum. The serum gave him strength. The Valkyrie gave him the future.Five ways Steve uses his strength in this brave new world, and one way he doesn't.





	Atlas, hold

**Author's Note:**

> This is a 5+1 inspired by the now infamous helicopter scene. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, please, for the love of all that’s holy, watch it on YouTube, even if you’ve seen Captain America: Civil War. You will not regret it. 
> 
> This piece is not in ANY way canon compliant with anything that happens after the first Avengers film. I am just rolling around in my filthy wish fulfillment sandbox, cackling about the idiot marshmallow that is Steve Rogers, and all the situations he gets his precious self into.
> 
> Comments, feedback, and screaming (good and bad), all gratefully received, especially if you highlight any mistakes! This is the first fanfic I've written in nearly seven. goddamn. years. Holy fuck. It's my first fic in this fandom, entirely self betaed. just so you're prepared for the hot kind of mess this puppy contains!

  ** **1\. Tony****

 

“Tony!”

The genius in question doesn’t even blink. Steve sighs, well able to recognise the signs of a multi day engineering bender, and sets the plate down. All right. Plan B it is.

“Jarvis?”

“Yes sir?”

“How long has he been here like this?”

“Approximately twenty two hours. Although I am certain Sir would not mind me informing you that prior to this Sir failed to sleep in the eighteen hours before the… incident.”

Steve shuddered. “Thanks Jarvis. I’m going to try to get him to bed, but we’ll see how it goes. Could you inform Ms. Potts about the situation and have her on standby?”

“A most welcome suggestion sir.” However the hell Tony programmed an AI to sound that physically tired, Steve will never know. At the moment he feels a kinship with Jarvis so intense it’s bordering on painful.

Right. Step one: break Tony’s focus. Step two: food. Step three: get him out of the lab and into a bed. Preferably his own, but Steve will take whatever he can get at this point. Step one is always the hardest though, because even more than he’s a genius, Tony Stark is the world’s greatest asshole.

Pushing past the scrap teetering high on the workbenches and dodging Dummy’s run with the fire extinguisher is all old hat at this point. What is not quite so welcomingly familiar is the large alien _thing_ that Tony had carted back to the Tower, repulsors barely keeping it and him aloft. Sometimes, Steve wishes his team-mates were just a little bit saner.

“Tony! You promised to leave that alone when we came back yesterday.”

There’s a particularly loud thunk inside the depths of the alien _thing_ which is how Steve knows he’s been heard.

After a moment, the banging starts again, but more sheepishly.

“Tony.”

It pauses, and then resumes as more of tapping, with a few grinding squeaks thrown in. Good Lord, how naive does Tony think they are?

“Yes, I know it’s interesting, but you didn’t sleep for eighteen hours _before_ we got called out.”

Several things in the _thing’s_ interior sullenly make horrendous creaking noises at just the right pitch for super sensitive hearing to be suddenly inconvenient.

“Don’t bring Jarvis into this, he’s only looking out for you, _like we all are_.”

Something pops and lets out a thin, whining rush of air.

“Um, no, don’t try to deflect. Bruce went to bed because he knows that the samples will still be there in the morning. But we’re talking about you!”

Steve lets the silence, finally, finally wash over him. But he doesn’t move yet, because at this stage in the hunt, the prey can easily still startle, and then fucking vanish for a further seventy-two hours. Because, as previously mentioned, Tony Stark is a goddamned world champion pain in the ass. 

“Hi Steve.”

Steve rolls his eyes.

“Hi Tony. Planning on coming out any time soon?”

Predictable as ever, Tony can’t resist the setup and pops his head out.

“Why Capsicle, didn’t darling SHIELD get you caught up on this years ago? Out and proud since practically birth, although I wouldn’t say no if you wanted a demonstration just to prove it…” He winks, probably intending to appear sexy, or suave, or smouldering, or well. Anything except the demented ferret off those TV commercials that Thor can’t stop quoting.

Steve raises an eyebrow and thinks longingly of the days when his role as team leader didn’t amount to babysitting a bunch of supposed adults.

Tony grins, and it only highlights the graceful smudges of grease and oil smeared everywhere upon his person. The dimmed glow on the arc reactor through his t-shirt is the only hint that the person in front of Steve does not, in fact, belong in a mad house, and is instead a doctor several times over. “So that’s a yes, I’m so glad you’ve made a sensible decision Tony-”

“I absolutely committed to no such thing!” Tony yelps, the scrunching down of his eyebrows a silent howl of outrage Steve would savour if only he didn’t know just how much Tony would make him suffer for it.

Still, it does make him look even more like those ferret things on the TV, which is both hilarious and worrying. Explosions tend to start happening once Tony reaches a certain level of rodent resemblance. What were those animals even called?

“You absolutely did as you’re now talking to me which means whatever you were working on is not vital. Ergo, you can leave it and. Go. To. Bed.”

Tony hisses like a cobra about to spit. He inhales, eyes snapping, mouth a thin line, angling his body more directly towards Steve to better vent his outrage-

“And I’ll call Pepper if you don’t.”

Every single ounce of venom Tony was about to unleash pauses, clenched behind his teeth as the cogs of his person-brain start to grind again. Steve has a moment of distant triumph when he finally realises that Tony Stark really bears a frightening level of similarity to a fucking _meerkat_ , stupid swivelling head and all, before the inevitable flame of spite, cunning, and recklessness springs to life in Tony’s eyes.

“Pepper’s asleep right now in Tokyo so I call bullshit. You _never_ wake her up to deal with me.”

What a time for Tony to actually remember the correct time zone Pepper is in. How coincidental. Steve will mark this day, and then tell Pepper about it when she gets back, so they can both look at each other and sigh about their continuing life choices.

This crumb of comfort, does not, unfortunately, change the pantomime of ridiculousness before him. Steve breathes in, and brings out the big guns.

“I brought you donuts, and if you don’t go upstairs with me, I will eat them all in front of you, right here, right now.”

Little do the super villains of today know Tony Stark’s true weakness: shitty Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and fried balls of sugar paste. Tony’s hands curl into claws and his eyes narrow into the malevolent stare of a pissed off house cat about to pounce.

Hm. Maybe reconsider the meerkat comparison.

“You, you… fiend. You sugar stealer, you exploitative Pollyana knockoff, you-”

“All you have to do is come over here for the first one.” Steve lifts the plate up, along with his eyebrows. Again.

Tony’s face scrunches, calculating his chances. They’ve done this dance enough times that he know Steve really will sit here in front of him and eat every single morsel on the plate, because he has a super serum and doesn’t get a stomach ache like a _normal person, Rogers_.

Slowly, he puts down the wrench, and Steve’s stomach unknots itself in relief. He didn’t hate donuts before he came to live at Stark Tower, but three months of this particular behaviour management strategy had been more than enough to induce a healthy loathing of any sugar coated lump. However, Tony doesn’t move any further, just stews in being caught out for a moment, or so Steve thinks. Then Tony looks up.

“What?” Tony’s lips turn down, into what some might call a pout, if anyone could describe a fifty year old man as pouting.

Steve does.

Worse though, Tony’s eyes flick from side to side, looking for the escape he knows he hasn’t got.

“What, Tony.”

“Imightbeabitsrugh.” 

Steve shakes his head. _Genius_ , he reminds himself, _Nobel Prize winning_ , he reminds himself, _Iron Man_ , he reminds himself; and breathes. “Say again?”

“I might. Be. A bit - stuck.”

Wow, the room’s gone dark all of a sudden. Oh no, that’s just Steve closing his eyes in a vain attempt to hide how he would very, very much like to throw Tony Stark out the nearest window of his not-a-penis-allegory tower. 

When he opens his eyes again, Tony’s mouth is moving, which means he’s been speaking a mile a minute for however long it took Steve to pull the shreds of his sanity together. Steve is really not interested in actually listening to any of the bullshit Tony has flung together in the worst recesses of his genius, genius, brain in the nanosecond it took him to realise just how stupid he’d made himself sound.

He interrupts. “How do we get you out?”

Tony swallows, expression amazingly similar to someone who has been forced to eat a live cockroach while bathing in a tub of baked beans. Steve likes YouTube, okay?

“Entry hatch is on the bottom - it rolled over when I shifted too far over inside.”

This pronouncement means Steve can feel the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes deepening as he glares at Tony, because of course the idiot would do something like that. Not that this has any effect on the greased up bundle of disaster trapped in front of him.

“Just roll it over and I can get out, same as I went in. Easy.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Got a better idea than that. Hold still and let’s try not spinning you round like clothes in the washer, Tony.”

“How the hell - oh."

Steve grunts. The _thing_ is heavier than it looks. He gets it to shoulder level after a few shaky moments. Hopefully that means more than enough room for Tony to climb out. 

“Thanks Cap; two seconds and I’ll be out!” There’s a scuffling, a shuffling, and silence.

The silence stretches on, and Steve starts to worry - did Tony hit his head? The _thing_ is getting heavier and he’s sweating with the effort of holding it up. Another minute and he’ll be done, possibly squishing Tony Stark’s head like a grape in the process.

“Mmmmmmm.”

Steve yelps and drops the thing with a cavernous clang as he spins toward the demonic slurping now emanating from behind him.

Tony smirks. “Nice donut choice Steve. Made my mouth water. I appreciate your.. efforts."

Steve wishes, not for the first time, that the serum magically bestowed upon the recipient the power to set someone on fire with the sheer ire of their gaze. “How long were you going to watch me there you _ass_?”  

Tony fucking _giggles_ , because he is _actually_ five years old and Steve has had enough of this. Giggles turn into an indignant yelp when Steve sweeps Tony off his feet, over his shoulder, and heads for Tony’s room.  

Plate, of course, in hand.

“Jarvis, add that one to my calendar of Steves!”

**2\. Bruce**

 

The lab gleams bone-white in the fluorescent lighting that even the technological marvel of Stark Tower relies on. Steve swears every time he crosses the threshold the temperature drops and _something_ takes notice and peers out from the walls at him. 

That particular suspicion may or may not be a more recent development, after the purple monkey affair.

But the lab is a few degrees cooler than the rest of the tower, something about keeping the cultures stable. Steve’s not a scientist, thank the Lord above himself, and can check himself out of those conversations with a glazed expression and a quick mention of Tony’s name. In any case, the temperature always raises the hairs on the back of his neck and within five minutes have him fidgeting in his seat like he’s back in Sister Bridget’s old classroom, wishing in vain he could sink through the floor and escape yet another lecture on the very obliquely described, yet very many and varied, sins of the flesh.  

Bruce catches his eye and smiles, eyes crinkling. “Don’t let me keep you here if you’re bored. I’m sure you have far better things to do than watch me prepare the latest strain of the virus in agar jelly.”

Steve freezes, a pit of guilt opening in his stomach, and he can feel his face begin to flush that damnable dull red he’s never been able to suppress. “No! I mean - I’m not bored. Just chilly.”

Bruce pauses over the next petri dish as his eyebrows rise the way his hands should have done. “Please don’t try to flatter me Steve. This isn’t interesting even for me at this stage and I’m the one who designed this experimental procedure.”

“I don’t think it’s boring,” Steve mumbles, flush deepening to what he’s sure is a nice approximation of the surface of the sun. “I like being in here with you. It’s peaceful. And quiet.” He pauses. “Very, very quiet.”

Bruce fails to hide a twitch at the corner of his mouth at the not-so-hidden reference, before clearing his throat. “Well I appreciate you keeping me company then. What’s the plan for the SHIELD meeting tomorrow with Fury, anyway?”

Steve huffs, running his hands through his hair, greasy now from the morning’s sparring and this afternoon’s call out. Small bits of grit and dirt mar the pristine worktop as he does so; a small but real stab of satisfaction. Bruce clearing his throat brings him back to the topic at hand. “I’m not sure what Fury’s angling for. We’ll have to see what he comes in with before we decide to confront it or play for more time. If I had to guess I’d say it’s related to the meeting he had with Ross last week though." 

Bruce’s hand clenches so tight around the pipette he’s holding that Steve is momentarily afraid he’ll shatter it and injure himself. But, nostrils flaring, he relaxes inch by inch, before setting it down with the faintest click, and turns his full attention to Steve for the first time.

“What’s his play? Ross, I mean.”

“Old news. National security, confidential military property, mission critical intel. That’s not what we have to worry about, it’s how he goes about it this time. Politics and wheedling crooked figures in the background hasn’t worked so far - he must be running out of favours to pull. Meeting with Fury might be a sign he’s going to play hard ball.”

Bruce goes almost the same shade as the worktops behind him, mouth flopping open.

“But,” Steve forges on, “he doesn’t have any official backing whatsoever. No-one is interested in taking us on, either privately or in the press, especially after last month.” Bruce is, at least, forced to concede that point with a wry shrug. “Whatever he’ll do, it will be with limited resources and people, which makes it less of a threat for us to worry about. Fury’s only interest will be in if he can use protection from Ross as a carrot to get us to do something we don’t really want to.”

Bruce frowns, brow wrinkled and unmoving. Steve would think he’d been carved from granite if he didn’t know better. “I should go then, hide, until all this dies down. I’m just putting a giant target on all our backs, and leverage for Fury.”

Steve snorts, the indelicate sound cracking the quiet in the room like a gunshot. “Don’t even think about it. Ross has it out for all of us, and if it wasn’t for this, Fury would find something else - several something elses - to hold over us.” He hops off the stool and paces over to Bruce, pausing when he sees the man’s shoulders start to hunch. He angles his hips to lean against the counter. “None of this is your fault in any case." 

Bruce’s face spasms even as his hands move like oiled cogs between the specimen plates again. “You’re entitled to your opinion Steve, but the Hulk’s track record would-" 

“Definitively prove my point.”

Bruce starts to wring his hands, and sets the pipette down with a clang this time. This is another old song and dance for Steve, but Banner never gets tired of trying to push the same point via a different route. Steve folds his arms and stares into Bruce’s eyes as best he can, given the scientist won’t look him in the eye. Steve can do a very good line in both ‘immovable object’ and ‘unstoppable force’. This situation, however, requires the former approach.

“Hulk has worked with us for going on two years now, Bruce, with no injuries to the team and minimal civilian casualties. And you know those were only caused when the enemy was shooting at him. Stop trying to throw yourself on the wire for our sake when you don’t need to. We’ve handled people like Ross before and will again. You’re ours, and he can’t have you.”

The crease doesn’t leave Bruce’s brow. “I still think you’re underestimating Ross. You’ve never engaged him before-”

A fact that will soon be rectified if Steve has any say over how this goes.

“And you don’t know what lengths he’s willing to go to. You should remember - well. Harlem.” Bruce shrinks down inside his lab coat, lips pressed together and fists creaking in the material of his trousers. Steve sighs and rubs the side of his mouth trying to decide how best to tackle this. It’s not as if Bruce’s fears are irrational, but he tends so far towards the pessimistic in his assessment of anything to do with the Hulk that it’s difficult to pick which aspect to answer first.

“Ross is first and foremost military. He tends to opt for the most forceful and direct option he can think of, so we-”

All the very rational, reasonable and likely to be swatted away arguments Steve was about to lay out are abruptly cut off by an immense _thwump_ , followed by the floor under their feet juddering. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve sees the enormous lab refrigerator shuffling across the floor in some mad parody of a dance, before the end of its power lead snaps taut and the half ton of metal starts to topple towards Bruce, frozen, arms spread wide to protect his agar cultures. His expression is already resigned to the green encounter rapidly approaching his cranium.

Steve, however, is faster. Blessings of the serum and all that, but it’s the work of half a second to flow over the counter and plant himself in front of Bruce, lean back, and catch the _heavy-as-fuck_ fridge before the Hulk gets to come out and play a lot earlier than they’d all expected. Steve grits his teeth, and shifts his grip bit by bit, to manoeuvre the fridge back into its previous upright position without squashing Bruce too badly. Said scientist, of course, regards his actions with all the baffled wonder of a kitten who’s now encountered yarn balls for the first time.

“I would have been fine you know.” He raps his knuckles against his head, mouth twisting down. “The big guy wasn’t about to let a fridge take me out before Ross.” Bruce’s laugh is hollow.

Steve, for all that he loves Bruce, can feel his patience running out. “So I should let you get hurt?” He snaps.

Bruce fixes his gaze at the wall behind Steve’s head. “As I said, I wouldn’t have got hurt.”

“I wasn’t talking about an injury Bruce. We both know that.”

Bruce’s colour is starting to come back to him, but he still fiddles with the cuffs on his shirt sleeves instead of looking at Steve, hair ruffled. Steve lets the silence stretch, unfolding his arms and standing straight, waiting for the right moment.

It’s so slight he almost misses it. Bruce blinks, eyelids taking a full second to close, then open, the muscles in his face drooping. Steve smiles, projecting as much confidence and warmth as he can into it. “You’re one of us, Bruce, and so is the Hulk. Ross isn’t going to touch you. And if Captain America can’t handle a wayward fridge, we’ve all got bigger problems, right?”

A rueful smile edges out from the shadows of Bruce’s bowed head. He finally straightens, smooths down the edges of his shirt sleeves one more time, and cocks his head towards Steve. “Tea?”

“That’s a great idea, thanks. Just hold off pouring until I see what Tony’s done this time.”

 

**3\. Natasha**

 

“Steve, stop hiding and get out of the closet.” Natasha’s glare is merciless. At least, Steve assumes it must be, given the icy tone he can hear through the door. Still, it’s not worth even the Black Widow’s wrath to venture out before checking the coast is clear.

“Is Amy gone?”

The silence takes on an incredulous aspect.

“Natasha, please?” Steve can almost hear her rolling her eyes, as the gentle huff of the Black Widow at her most exasperated penetrates the cocoon of shame he’s built for himself. 

“She’s at the other end of the floor, but not looking this way. If you can forget to look like a chipmunk on steroids for the length of time it takes to open the door and walk into the staircase, she won’t even bat an eyelid.”

Steve considers his options, and decides that the cocoon of shame is actually quite comfortable. “I, um, think I’ll be alright here for another bit. Just, y’know, until she leaves for good." 

“Rogers, this is pathetic. Even for you.” Steve can almost smell the door starting to smoke under Natasha’s gaze now. “The season premiere of Say Yes To The Dress is starting in half an hour and we’re twenty minutes to the Tower.”

Steve gulps. “I… don’t want you to miss that?”

“Natasha’s voice remains completely flat and level. “No, Steven, you do not.”

He winces. “Uh, you can… go back, um, without me? I really don’t mind staying here, and you shouldn’t miss your show because of me." 

“No, I shouldn’t. But Steve. You’ve been hiding in this closet for twenty minutes now. What guarantee do I have that I won’t arrive here on Monday morning and find you still in there?”

“I would… get out - once everyone left tonight?”

“It’s eleven thirty now.”

“It’s not that long until five.”

“Really.”

Steve scowls. “Yes. But this wouldn’t be necessary if you hadn’t uploaded that video to SHIELD’s intranet last week.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Steve scowls harder. “Oh don’t you?” He scoffs. “And here I was thinking that a video of me sparring with Clint without my shirt, in the Tower gym, was magically put there by Loki. Who must also have been there somehow, invisible, because I only saw you and Thor there with us.”

“Thor _is_ very good with technology.”

Steve growls under his breath before rearing back in alarm as the doorknob starts to turn. Realising his mistake too late, he lunges to brace something, anything, against it to block it opening. In the short second it takes the door to swing open, revealing the Black Widow, arms folded, foot tapping; every iota of her position communicating how very much she is officially Done With This Bullshit, Steve manages to find and brandish a stapler and a discarded coat hanger.

Nat snorts, once, like a particularly disgruntled camel preparing to spit on him. Steve’s last visit to the Central Park Zoo had been exceptionally educational.

“What’re you gonna do with those, Cap?” Natasha quirks an eyebrow.

Idly, Steve wonders if there is any universe in which Natasha Romanov is unable to make him feel like a toddler throwing a tantrum with a mere glance.

Natasha raises her other eyebrow. 

Steve thinks the answer to his previous question is: almost certainly not.

Instead of answering, he sidles over to the shelves on the left and shoves the offending items back. Taking this sign of capitulation as her overdue and rightful victory, Natasha spins on her heel and starts walking. For lack of anything better to do now his stronghold lies in ruins around him, Steve follows, easing out to peer round the cocoon of shame’s door jamb. The laughter of Amy, Shaniqua and Chen in the corner, thankfully, covers his exit.

He reaches for the stairwell’s door, thanking God that the Shield agents are currently sufficiently distracted to cover his exfil. The door doesn’t give. Steve tries again, the dim splutters of hope he’d had mere moments ago extinguished. 

“You _snake_.” He hisses through the door, knowing that Natasha can never resist sticking around to gloat when possible.

“Man up Rogers.” The moment stretches, as Steve contemplates if it would be worth breaking the handle off the door and forcing his way out before anyone can realise what’s happened.

“And don’t even think about breaking this door down. Go make nice like a normal human being. She’s not going to eat you.”

“But she _wants_ to!”

Another camel snort. “Stop being such a baby. It’ll take you two minutes to make her day, I promise.”

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop _matchmaking_?”

Silence. Steve eyes the door, but doesn’t want to run the risk of Natasha waiting to pounce on the other side. Or worse, Natasha having her Widow’s bites hooked up to activate when the door next opens. He breathes in, centring himself, and turns, striding for the opposite door. 

“Captain Rogers!” The voice is light, friendly, and belongs to a stunning blonde who knows twelve different ways to disable anyone trying to break into SHIELD’s most secure files. Dressed in the standard skintight catsuit, Steve can’t help but notice how glamorous Amy is. But he is not interested in having yet more briefings derailed by co-workers unable to stand his presence after a dating disaster.

He glances to the side to see her homing in on him like a lion on an injured wildebeest, and keeps going as best he can. “Hi Amy, I’m really sorry but I’m running late and have to get going!”

“Captain Rogers, sir, please stop!” She makes it directly into his path to the doorway, forcing him to skip to a stop. “We just need-”

“Sorry Amy, I can’t-” 

“A hand with something, I promise-”

“Iron Man messaged me a few minutes ago-”

“The filing cabinets aren’t that heavy!”

“There’s something I have to - what?”

Amy’s slightly flushed from pretending-not-to-run over to him. “Um, the filing cabinets we need moved over to Agent Kenpan’s area? Agent Romanov said you wouldn’t mind helping since they’re too heavy for us to move and maintenance can’t do it before we finish today.” She finishes, panting from cramming several sentences into thirty seconds.

“Did she?”

“Didn’t she mention it to you? Oh, I’m so sorry, it’s fine, we’ll manage somehow, I didn’t mean to accost you like this!” Her eyes are wide, and earnest.

Steve crumples like a paper bag left in the rain. “If it’s quick, sure I can help. No problem. At all.” Amy’s grin is blinding. “Er, where do you want me?” He winces. “To move the cabinets!”

She latches on to his arm, tugging with surprising strength. “Thank you so much! It would have been a huge pain to move ourselves, we didn’t even know where to start!” She deposits him in front of what can only be described as Frankenstein’s filing cabinet. It’s taller than Steve by virtue of several mismatched drawers messily welded to the top, and what looks like half a photocopier crashed into the left hand side. On the right someone probably related to Tony has installed a barista level coffee machine.

“Uh, wow.” Shaniqua and Chen burst out laughing at whatever expression is showing on Steve’s face.

“We know, isn’t it terrible?” Shaniqua bounces over, eyes creased in mirth. “But Kenpan insisted nothing can come off! It’s been here forever and no-one would know how to put it back right. We’ve been talking about it for days.”

Steve eyes the contraption in front of him with dread crawling its way down his throat. “I’m going to need someone to handle me. I mean, handle directing me! From behind. Not behind - but facing the same way. Because I won’t be able to see.” Steve is aware of the his ears burning as he stumbles, at last, to the end of his sentence. All three agents are now looking at him less like he’s a national icon, and more like he might need a brain scan to check for cranial trauma.

Which, fair. Steve decides the best way to escape the mortification he’s currently experiencing is to just shut up and lift the cabinet _now_.

Amy jumps forward as Steve hoists the bizarre amalgamation, voice neutral and calm as she directs Steve, because he wasn’t kidding. He really can’t see a thing with all the ludicrous attachments. Thank the Lord, the job is more fiddly than difficult, since Agent Kenpan was _very_ precise in his instructions for the cabinet’s new placement.

Steve straightens from his crouch to a hearty backslap from Amy, face filled with glee, while the others whoop. “This is brilliant Captain! We’ll be able to leave early thanks to you-”

Steve barely contains his flinch, panic rising as he tries to come up with some excuse to avoid the offered flirtation over drinks or coffee that’s headed his way. Tony could manufacture some sort of alien crisis surely? Or Clint, Clint probably needs help with the mafia again, and wouldn’t rat Steve’s cowardice out to Natasha- 

“and I absolutely could not be late again, Sophie would kill me, she’s had our anniversary dinner booked for _months-_ ”

What?

“at this rate I would have been sleeping on the couch for the next year if not for you, so thank you again!”

“Oh. Um. Like I said, no problem.” Steve feels a little like those times early in the war when he beaned himself in the face with his shield and the world operated ahead of his brain for a while. “I... didn’t know you were married.”

Amy freezes for a split second. “I, uh, don’t usually mention it. But. Five years today.” She firms her smile, shoulders hunching a little, and looks up at Steve’s big, dumb head, which is currently realising that not only was Amy _not at all_ interested in him, but that she now might think he’s one of those homophobic assholes.

Well, at least Steve can right one of his mistakes. “That’s wonderful Amy, you guys must be very happy together.” Steve smiles. “Give her my best and I hope you guys have a great evening.

Amy recovers her verve a few seconds after Steve’s first words sink in, and by the time he finishes the sentence she’s beaming. “Thanks Captain! She’ll be so stoked to hear that, she’s a big fan! You have a great weekend too.”

Steve waves the three agents off as he finally exits into the longed for stairwell, pausing to shake his head at Natasha’s words. ‘Make her day’ - well it _had_ come true, he supposed. 

Steve was still going to short sheet Natasha’s bed when he got home though.

 

**4\. Thor**

 

Mjolnir is a strangely beautiful weapon. Steve has always noticed, and appreciated, the blunt snouts of rifles polished to a careful gleam, the infinite, graceful edge of his shield curving away from him as he launches it, the glittering potential of knives flashing in the sun.

But Mjolnir is not like anything he’s come across before.

There’s something almost hypnotic about its quiet presence. Nothing that can be heard, or seen, but _just_ felt on the dim edges of awareness humanity has used to survive for eons in the dark. Like the buzzsaw anticipation of a storm overhead about to break with its first, mighty thunderclap. Instincts that warn, not always of danger, but of potency. No-one who’s seen Thor in battle could deny the sheer energy Mjolnir and he can bring to bear.

It’s therefore a little odd that Thor leaves the hammer lying around wherever he pleases. Don’t get him wrong, Steve is not going to judge anyone else on how they handle their weapons. Especially if said weapons can fly to their owner’s hand in a second, but it seems… a little undignified.

Especially today, when it’s dumped next to the shoe rack. Which, this being the Tower, has no shoes it it, but two teddy bears, various stacks of empty pizza boxes, several cases of spent cartridges, miscellaneous shredded and intact t-shirts, and a skateboard. Steve has no idea where the skateboard came from as it wasn’t there this morning.

He murmurs under his breath as he begins to pick up the empty pizza boxes “Sweet gal like you shouldna be slummin it. Thor oughta know how to treat a lady.”

That awareness, ever on the horizon of his perception, flares into clarity for an intense second. If Steve didn’t know that the hammer is, after all, an inanimate object, he would swear he could feel that it’s… amused. 

He’s clearly been woolgathering for far too long. Respectful of Thor’s warnings, he makes no attempt to move the weapon, just brushes the wrist strap aside as he reaches for the next pizza box.

It happens on infrequent occasions around the Tower. Steve is most certainly not the Avenger’s maid, or mother, but. There are times when the ghost of Sarah Rogers wailing in his ear about the filth _surely_ brewing in the piles of discarded stuff everywhere, has him heaving himself off the sofa and onto a mission to reunite object and owner. Or, as happens much of the time, introduce the object to the trash can. 

Interestingly, what Steve learns from doing this is that while Thor never leaves anything _except_ Mjolnir lying around, Barton can’t even hold onto a pair of socks for five minutes before losing one. Tony scatters cups of half drunk coffee in his wake; Natasha stashes weapons in any conceivable hiding place possible. It’s an interesting insight into the habits of his team mates, even as he becomes aware, with a creeping intensity, that he never tidies alone.

It makes him bold enough, one day to rest his hand on Mjolnir and speak. “Could move you, if you wanted.” He’s hesitant, only doing this after triple checking no-one else was around, because he was about to try talking to a goddamn _hammer_. The future is plenty wild sometimes, but Steve is sure most people would still frown on that sort of thing.

There’s no immediate reaction, so he carries on, feeling foolish. Until when he’s almost done a spark of static leaps from the hammer to him, crackling right through his spine and into the ground, a molten trail of clenched muscles and nerve endings singing in intensity. It’s a hell of a yes, or so he supposes.

Hesitant, he curves his hand to the grip, sliding slow and gentle. When he braces, ready to heave, laughter echoes in a far-off corner of his brain and he relaxes. So that’s how it goes. “Where to, sweet thing?” he asks, as he cradles a weapon which can level mountains, oceans, galaxies, in his hand; and it weighs nothing, nothing at all.

 

**5\. Sam**

 

Steve straightens, mopping sweat from his forehead as the mugginess of DC finally overwhelms even the super serum’s best efforts to keep him pristine. “How much more to come down?” 

“Not a lot - a box of books and the tank.” Sam slumps next to Steve, also wiping sweat from his forehead. He, however, is dripping, grey t-shirt turned black with perspiration. Seeing Steve’s dewy brow, he levels a glare at the blonde. “How are you not as rank as me, white boy? Everyone knows your pasty Irish ass can’t handle the heat!”

Steve smirks. “Serum.” He shrugs.

Sam seems not to find this as amusing as Steve for some unknown reason. His expression eloquently conveys that the only thing keeping Steve alive is his continued usefulness in moving Sam’s stuff. “Man, shut the hell up. It ain’t enough that you get ten pack abs for free?”

“Apparently not,” Steve laughs, “although I don’t see you complaining when these abs haul most of your crap down several flights of stairs for you!”

Sam sniffs, brushing non-existent lint off the shoulder of his t-shirt. “Rogers, you don’t get an ass as fine as mine without a lot of work. And that means I can park my fine ass wherever I want while the guy who can eat six pizzas himself with no consequences does a little labour for once.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I always did wonder why they called it the Chair Force before I met you, but not anymore.”

Sam wheezes in outrage, eyes bulging with the force of his venom. He looks, Steve thinks absently, like a cross between an enraged Chihuahua, and a startled raccoon.

“You _did not_ just go there, Steve!”

Steve raises an eyebrow, grinning his best ‘who me? Aw shucks, don’t know what you’re talking about’ grin. Sam calls this his ‘liar liar, pants on fire’ face. Steve calls it his ‘you’re a moron if you fall for this’ face. It’s been working beautifully on most people for seventy plus years now, why call time on a good thing when there’s plenty of life left in it?

No reason, that’s what. In fact, Steve relishes the vein he sees starting to tick on Sam’s left temple _just_ enough that he completes the move by flicking his aviators down from his hairline and onto his face in a move that looks artless but in reality took about seven hours of practice and several eye injuries to perfect.

“No. Just no.” Sam says. “I am not putting up with any more of this horseshit, Mr. Dorito. Get your flat ass up my stairs for the last damn time. And be grateful if I don’t kick you right in the pants either.”

Steve snakes a sideways look towards Sam, making sure to look over the rims of his unnecessarily shiny aviators as he does. The vein in Sam’s forehead bulges.

“Do not,” he grits out, “make me count to three.”

Steve smothers a laugh, keeping his face completely still as he chirps: “Didn’t know you could count that high, but okay!”

There is a split second of golden bliss as Sam’s face rearranges itself into an expression of disgust; like Steve is some sort of demented science experiment that’s just oozed all over him.

Well. Steve pretty much is, and pretty much has during the many, many occasions they’ve been forced to share _extremely_ close quarters.

But the satisfaction is still sweet as he darts out of reach, Sam’s hands clawing for his t-shirt, intent on enacting some form of epic noogie revenge, and skips up the stairs, the sound of Sam’s cursing the perfect soundtrack to his journey.

By the time Sam also makes it up the stairs, gasping like a landed fish and draping himself over the countertop as if he’s about to undergo open heart surgery, Steve has already got the box of books from the back room. All that’s left apart from that is, as Sam said, his fish tank. Which , this being Sam, is the fish tank equivalent of ‘go big or go home’. It’s a full eight feet long and three feet tall, with approximately a gazillion rainbow coloured fish inside that Steve can barely even see, let alone name, but Sam insists he can identify and name every single one.

Steve is deeply, deeply, suspicious of that claim and intends to put it to the test sometime after the damn monstrosity is installed in the Tower.

That is, after they manage to transport it to the Tower, an operation which is currently looking like it might need a crane, heavy haulage, and Tony Stark’s brain to pull off.

“What are we going to do with this Sam?”

The supposed superhero in question has, by now recovered enough to peel himself away from this counter with a rancid _shlurp_. “We? Oh no _Steven_ , there is no we in this.”  

Steve frowns, every instinct screaming at him to STOP, NOW, NONONONONO, DANGER AHEAD BUDDY, ABORT ABORT, but asks the question anyway. 

“Excuse me?"

Sam saunters over, sunlight haloing his head as he passes by the window, giving him an unfair likeness to an angel for one brief moment. Unfair because Steve knows he’s actually the devil, as evidenced by the hand he claps to Steve’s shoulder before launching into the speech it’s clear the asshole has been saving up all afternoon.

“Oh _no_ Sam, we’ll be able to move _everything_ ourselves, why would we _ever_ want the help of Tony Stark’s _professional_ moving crew for _free_ who would do all the work for us, _whenever_ we wanted. Oh no, why would we _ever_ want that? Especially why would we want that compared to the delights of 85% humidity and battling through Manhattan traffic at the end of a five hour drive? Hm? Steve, can you _possibly_ think of any reason why we would want that, because _gosh golly gee_ , I sure can’t!” Sam turns Steve to face him, neck craning out like he’s trying out for the role of World’s Worst Giraffe Impression, seeing as Steve refuses to meet his weird, bulgy eyes. Judgy, bulgy eyes.

“Steve!”

“What!”

“You are going to get my fish downstairs and onto that moving truck without harming even one of their precious scales. If you do, I will _cut_ you.” Sam’s usual friendly expression has taken on a murderous cast, brows snapping down so far over manic brown eyes so that he looks, just a little, like a constipated turtle. “Those are my babies, and I like them a lot better than you. It will not go well for you if you fuck this up, Rogers." 

Steve nods. “Fine. How hard can it be?”

“One. Single. Scale." 

Steve sighs, wondering yet again at why the universe continues to thrown complete nutcases at him like darts at a dartboard. The fish tanks sits, sullen and silent, mocking him as he mulls over the angles. He considers where he could… put his hands? This is not at all like the angles involved in throwing the shield, which is something Steve is very good at, and much more like the angles involved in trigonometry, which Steve is not very good at, because he spent most of the little time he was well enough to attend math class doodling in his exercise book, kicking Bucky under the desk, or staring out the window.

In hindsight, now, a mistake. But. The fish tank will not move itself, and it will not be moved by Tony Stark’s moving crew because Steve would _literally_ never hear the end of it from _anyone_.

Considering the aquarium is eight feet long, but needs to stay horizontal, Steve decides the best approach is to sling it over his shoulder and walk sideways down the stairs. Thank God they’re nice and wide for turning around between floors. Sam broods in the corner like the faithless vulture he is, squawking over every little shift and slip. One slip. Which Steve righted _before_ so much as drop of Sam’s precious fish juice spilled over the side, _Wilson_.

The tank takes a lot of manoeuvring, at both ends, in order to ensure Steve doesn’t bash the ends into the walls. Considering the tank is glass (tempered glass an inch thick to be sure, but still glass) and the walls are concrete, that is not an outcome conducive to keeping all Sam’s sea bugs in mint condition. Steve values the continued existence of his eyebrows, which is why he says nothing about the continued histrionics in his ear, all twelve floors down. What this all means is that Sam scurries back and forth under the tank on Steve’s shoulder at every intersection, issuing a non-stop flood of _supremely unhelpful_ directions which have Steve leveraging himself and the tank through the turns, not even inch by inch, but millimetre by millimetre.

And seeing as the tank is full of water and Very Important Fish, it’s heavy as _balls_. Steve can overhead press a lot more than the tank, but this is loaded all on one shoulder and in quite possibly the most awkward shape for one person to carry ever invented. By the time they make it back out into the sunshine, Steve’s entire right side has gone numb and the only reason he knows he still has a right arm is because the fingers of said arm burn like he’s stuck them in a stream of fresh lava.

When, at last, the damn thing is safe and strapped to its pallet in the back of the moving truck, Steve is drenched. No dewy glow of the super fit anymore, just a vain attempt to hold his now soaked t-shirt away from where it’s sticking, unpleasantly clammy, to his chest. Satan’s own arsecrack would probably smell a little less ripe than him right now.

Sam sighs in pleasure. Steve narrows his eyes at him, and loudly announces, “It sure is hot out here. Guess I’ll have to cool off before we start driving!” before he makes a beeline for the tank.

Sam swears.

The ensuing ‘scuffle’ claims several casualties - three of Mrs. Bacatti’s begonias, several cracks in the sidewalk, one mailbox, and both of their dignities.

 

**+1 Bucky**

 

It’s been a long day. A very, very, long day. Steve aches all over, the serum working double time to heal his various cuts and bruises, with a few cracked ribs thrown in to polish the list off. The other Avengers aren’t much better. Once Clint lands the Quinjet, the ramp lowering with a relieved hiss, they all stagger off and make a beeline for their respective floors. For Steve, the siren call of a hot bath to soak away his aches means anyone who tries to stop him will shortly know, as intimately as he does, exactly what being thrown through a solid concrete wall feels like.

Minutes later, he wobbles into his apartment at last, dropping the shield with a muffled _thunk_ on the carpet, to see Bucky asleep on the sofa. The news is playing in the background, shots of the ongoing cleanup efforts and highlights of Steve and the others fighting the crocodiles with wings that he _refuses_ to call dragons. He shuffles towards the bathroom, wrestling gloves off and unclipping his tac belt with clumsy fingers, laying them out on the table to clean later.

Bucky dozes on, unaware, and Steve can feel his mouth curving without his brain being consulted. That’s just how it goes. Bucky makes him happy. And Steve? Well, he’s never been good at all at hiding how he feels - no matter how much Natasha despairs of his inability to stay undercover. Seeing his pal, warm, safe, relaxed and himself, in Steve’s home? Is more than he ever dreamed of having when he woke up in the future. Steve still can’t believe it sometimes, in the way you can’t quite grasp a handful of sand, each moment running through his fingers, seemingly insignificant and worthless; but in actuality delicate and golden, precious and unique beyond human understanding.

Steve realises he’s been smiling haplessly at Bucky for minutes on end now, instead of doing something about the layers of grime, blood, and crocodile sludge coating his person. It happens a lot, this staring, helplessly taken in by Bucky, here. _Here_. With Steve. After all these years, after all he’s been through. With Steve, ‘til the end of the line. It’s too much sometimes; Steve doesn’t know how to cope with all the feelings Bucky makes surge in his breast. Love, as always, but so much more than that. Feelings borne of budding boys in Brooklyn, fired in the forges of war, exhumed and breathed into being again by betrayal in this strange new future. So many nameless, shapeless things that sit on Steve’s chest and whisper to him, catch his breath and take it so it’s almost like he has asthma again. His eyes trace the curve of Bucky’s cheek, the slant of his eye, for the thousandth, millionth time. He’ll never get tired of it. Bucky is beautiful in every way, and Steve can do nothing but wonder at how he’s been so blessed. To love him every moment he’s here.

But while Steve is sure Bucky loves him too, it’s easier to love someone when they’re clean. Steve heads, at last, for the bath, and the next half an hour is as close to heaven on earth as the modern world can conjure up, in his opinion. Bath bombs spreading iridescence through the water and soft cedar through the air trigger his muscles to unwind, and shoulders to descend from their tight hold. It’s peaceful, to sit, to soak. Not just because the deep warmth feels so good on abused flesh, but because the familiar blue tile soothes wary instincts, like petting a tiger back to sleep after a kill. Every part of Steve is made for war, to be a weapon, and he is. But sometimes it’s nice to forget, to play at a normal life, to sink into ignorance and turn off the sharp eyed hunter in the back of his head for a little while.

His bath lasts longer than it should, and Steve pries himself from the discomfort of cooling water by sheer force of will. The stinking, grey pile of his uniform by door provokes a grimace, and he wraps a towel around his waist, bundling the uniform up at arm’s length for the special laundry chute Tony installed in all the apartments for exactly these occasions. Venturing out of the steam, the cool air in the rest of the apartment comes as a shock, and he shivers. But nothing sends lightning down his spine like the clear gaze running across his body from the sofa.

Blurring over the couch in a single, smooth leap, Bucky stalks forward. “Where are you hurt?”

“I’m fine Buck.”

The metal arm comes up to slide round the back of Steve’s neck, chasing more sparks into his sacrum, pleasure beginning to pool deep in his belly as they slide, whisper quiet, through the wet tangles on Steve’s head. “I’ll be the judge of that, punk. Don’t lie - are you hurt?”

Mute, Steve turns so Bucky can see the few remaining scrapes and bruises, and the lack of any major injury. “No Buck. I even got my ribs checked. Some hairline cracks, but you know they’ve either healed or will be in a few hours.”

Bucky holds his gaze, then sighs, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Steve’s. They breathe together for a moment, Steve unable to prevent himself from smiling again.

Bucky, of course, notices the movement, and chuffs a laugh. “Sap.”

Steve closes his eyes, breathing in the smell of Bucky and home. “Sure am. What you gonna do about it?”

The hand in his hair tightens, and Steve has to hold back a groan. Bucky smirks, the smug toad. He knows all Steve’s tells, his weak spots. He knows Steve inside out, down to the marrow of his bones and the blood beating through his veins. There is nothing quite as stark a reminder of their past as this: the way Bucky knows to trail his lips down Steve’s throat, hand keeping Steve’s head still while he laves his tongue over the join between Steve’s neck and shoulder. The edge of teeth makes Steve shudder in his grasp, and Bucky rumbles a dark chuckle, nosing back up to press a brief kiss to the patch of skin behind Steve’s ear that always provokes a gasp.

Damn if Steve isn’t grateful for how Bucky uses that knowledge sometimes.

“Was worried about you earlier. Need to check you’re okay.” Bucky continues his explorations after this pronouncement, turning Steve’s head and continuing his languid journey down to Steve’s other shoulder. “Need to check _every inch_ of you. Just to be sure.”

Steve can’t focus on what Bucky’s saying, the tug on his hair and Bucky’s lips on his skin overloading his few functioning brain cells. “Oh?” He gasps. “How thorough this check need t’be?”

Bucky answers by lifting his head; hand circling his nipples in ever decreasing spirals, caressing Steve’s chest. His eyes bore into Steve’s, holding him trapped, lambent in the deepening shadows of their apartment. Steve thought Bucky was beautiful earlier in the late afternoon shaft of sun, but he’s beautiful now too, hooded and watchful, body containing multitudes, like the twilight shades he could dissolve into. But he chooses to stay, with Steve. He chooses to sweep his fingers across Steve’s chest, down to his waist, and settle his palm on the jut of Steve’s hip, his heat burning into Steve’s chilled skin. 

“Darlin’, there ain’t no words for how thorough this check needs t’be.” Bucky’s voice is rough, laden with years of punishment, but in this moment it’s like honey to a fly, Steve watching and only wanting to drink him in and never escape.

“Good thing I got no place to be then, I suppose.” He shifts forward, pressing his lips to Bucky’s cheek, then his nose, then, at last, his lips, soft and inviting as ever. He feels drunk on this, lost in the taste and feel and smell of Bucky, until the world narrows down to them, Bucky’s hand an anchor to this new present. He would stay here forever if he could, exploring the warmth of Bucky’s mouth, enjoying the faint rasp of his stubble, the barely-there brush of his hair. Bucky’s fingers close on his nipple, kneading, tugging, and Steve gasps into Bucky’s mouth, pulling away. But the metal hand tightens on his hair, unforgiving, the sharp ache stoking the fire in Steve’s gut. He whines, desperate for more, but Bucky laughs, and retreats, releasing his hair to slide Steve’s hands onto his towel again.

“Still ain’t seen that all of youse is all right yet Stevie. I’m real worried bout’cha.” The metal arm gleams as he strokes a single finger down Steve’s navel. “You gotta show me you’re okay.”

Steve can’t help it, he laughs. Really laughs, a great, undignified honking outburst that creases Bucky’s eyes and has him withdraw a step, pretending to be offended.

“You don’t like my concern for your welfare Rogers?”

“Oh, I can tell you’re concerned, Barnes. Not sure what with though, given those lines you’re trotting out like I’m a dame in a dancehall.”

Bucky grins, and the well worn lines of his face make Steve ache all the more for him. “Prettiest dame there is, that’s you. Ain’t I just being a gentleman, checking you over? See if there’s anything that needs kissing better?” The glint in his eyes makes Steve’s breath stutter and his knees feel weak. Bucky’s always at his most dangerous when faced with a challenge. He loves nothing more than breaking resistance down until he is utterly, wholly and supremely victorious.

Then, to the victor, the spoils.

“Bet you say that to all the pretty girls, you jerk.”

Bucky invades Steve’s space, hands hovering over his hips, odd brushes of skin sending zinging flickers up Steve’s spine. “Oh no,” he breathes, “just dumb punks who don’t know when to quit.”

The old back and forth ratchets the fire in Steve higher, and he lets go of the towel, stepping forward to push into Bucky’s worn sweats, caressing the gentle sweep of his cheekbones, thumbing the generous curves of his lips before looping his arms round Bucky’s neck.

“Is that so?" 

“It is.” The feel of Bucky’s arms coming back to circle his waist again is heaven. Steve could stand like this all night, soaking in the sensation, until he merges entirely with this man, this extraordinary man, whose courage and kindness never fails to astound. Steve manages to choke out Bucky’s name as the banked lust he’s been resisting overwhelms his conscious control, hands groping along Bucky’ back, tracing the long lines of his latissimus dorsi, lingering over the dimples and divots carved into the warm expanse of him. If he could sink into Bucky’s skin he would, tuck himself away under the surface and twine around his heart, to keep him warm, and safe, and loved.

Bucky groans, nudging his hips closer to Steve’s, hand closing like a promise into Steve’s hair. Steve sucks in a huge lungful of air, before darting in to pepper Bucky’s face with kisses, Bucky snickering delight as he does, before tightening his grip on Steve’s hair and _pulling_ . For a moment, Steve is afraid his knees might really give way, a product both of the day’s exertions and Bucky’s impossibly attractive mien. As it is, he manages to hold up by swaying further into Bucky, drinking in every ounce of him, slotting his thigh between Bucky’s legs and angling his torso to slide a hand past Bucky’s waistband, trailing his fingertips over the front of Bucky’s cock. Which is bare because the fucker insists on going commando. Meaning Steve cannot visit the common areas with Bucky wearing these pants _ever again_ , Jesus Christ and all the saints above. Kneeling, he tugs them down, Bucky smug above him, refusing to help except by lifting his feet. 

“Like what you see, doll?”

Steve flushes. “Sure. Shame about the mug it’s attached to though.”

Bucky’s not fooled. “Aw, I’d hate to inconvenience you then. This mug can take care of himself…” He trails off as the thought has Steve’s grip tightening on his hips, fingers digging into flesh as if to brand Bucky as his, only his, forever and ever. Fingerprints like brands, unique in the universe, stamped on Bucky’s flesh to say: mine.

Steve surges up at the thought, the last vestiges of rational thought and witticisms abandoned. His desperation as he kisses Bucky must be transparent, the other growling as his nails rake down Steve’s back, and no matter the serum, Steve is helpless to stop the whimper of pleasure escape his throat. Bucky’s eyes go dark with satisfaction as he does it again, and again, and again, until Steve slumps, panting, into his chest. His cock is fully hard now, velvet hardness rubbing against Steve’s hip, prompting the realisation that Steve is hard as rock, aching for release, for Bucky to _touch_ him.

“Buck,” Steve gasps, “please, I need-”

“I know honey, I know,” Bucky croons, teeth nipping over Steve’s shoulders between words, “I’ll give you what you need.”

Steve has a moment of disorientation as the world around him spins several feet higher in one go, his cock enveloped by the wet heat he still dreams of some nights. A high cry echoes in the apartment, a paean to Bucky’s plush lips, wrapped around him as he hoists Steve higher up the wall, lifting Steve’s thighs over his broad, scarred shoulders, tucking his hands into the small of Steve’s back, a warm buffer against the plasterboard. Steve pants, light headed, feeling so small, Bucky moving him as if he weighs no more than he did in 1937 when they first did this, and it’s unspeakably, unbearably, hot. 

“Bucky please, oh god, please, I-” Bucky wrenches another cry from him as he ducks down again, sucking on Steve’s shaft, gaze smoking and hands tight on Steve’s back. It’s agonising,  but good, so good; the sensation a sharp lance of bliss suffusing Steve’s whole body, the crest of a wave to come. Bucky can feel every twitch of Steve’s thighs, every twist of his hips, even the tipping back of his head as he moans, long and loud. He’s in complete control. Steve has no leverage, no way to chase his peak, except to stay, trembling, and wait for Bucky to give him what he wants. The thought is enough to have his cock pulse in Bucky’s mouth, and restart the litany of praise Steve began earlier. “Bucky, oh my god, you’re so fucking good at this, love you, love your mouth...”

Bucky sucks harder, bobbing his head up and down Steve’s length, smooth and strong and assured. As he is in everything. He never stops looking into Steve’s face, just watches, hungry and fierce. He redoubles his efforts, but keeps the previous pace, knowing just how to drive Steve’s body wild, the buzz rushing through his veins all consuming. Right before Steve thinks he’ll go mad with it; Bucky pulls off, breathes deep, and then shifts back, steadily taking more and more of Steve’s cock until a few seconds later he’s swallowed the whole thing. Whining, whimpering, humping his hips like a whore, Steve hovers on the precipice, white heat along his entire dick; then Bucky growls, and that’s it. Steve shakes apart in his arms, blinded to everything by the hooks of his orgasm spasming deep in his belly, as Bucky swallows and swallows, pulling off only when Steve is sated and oversensitive, breaths rapid and shallow, legs trembling. 

They slide to the floor as Bucky surges over Steve’s lax figure, desire sharp in his movements, jerking his cock as Steve fumbles to join their hands. Despite his post-orgasm clumsiness, it’s not long after Steve takes over that Bucky comes, arching over to sink his teeth into Steve’s shoulder, white stripes painting Steve’s chest. They both rest there a moment, recovering. Steve feels like he might never get up again. His earlier tension and unease has well and truly vanished, replaced by a burning desire to find their bed and bury his face in Bucky’s neck, draw him in close until the sun rises and another day begins. Bucky looks like he feels the same, as he rolls over, then meanders to the bathroom for a washcloth. Once they’re wiped down, Steve kisses him, slowly, reverently; feathering affection across any skin he can find. It brings a gorgeous rosy hue to Bucky’s skin, because he’s always been bad at accepting tenderness. Bucky Barnes is the cocky grin, the hot footed joe who spins heads as fast as he can take a dame’s stockings off. He’s not soft, or gentle, or shy, except when he is. But that’s Steve’s.

“Bed?” Steve asks.

Bucky nods, and they drift through the rooms, still pausing to touch, to nuzzle in and luxuriate in each other. Soon enough, the world will need them. Soon enough, they will have to leave this shelter of linen and dazed worship. Soon enough, someone will publish something awful they’ll have to deal with. But for now, they have this moment; of sheets, and sweat, and skin.


End file.
